Complications
by Citizenjess
Summary: He hadn’t meant for it to happen exactly as it did – killing Prince Rapses, that is. Rated for descriptions of violence.


I seriously doubt there is even more than one person I know who has even watched "Mummies Alive!", but for some reason, I was compelled to write a small 'fic about Scarab. This is based on the episode, "Sleepwalk like an Egyptian" – my favorite bits of the series by and large are the flashbacks to the characters' lives in Ancient Egypt.

Summary: 'He hadn't meant for it to happen exactly as it did – killing Prince Rapses, that is'. Rated PG-13 for violence; 1,396 words.

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**Complications **

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He hadn't meant for it to happen exactly as it did - killing Prince Rapses, that is. In truth, Scarab had spent so much time crafting his plan, finessing all the details, the timing, that he'd completely neglected to consider exactly how he might accomplish the task of actually removing life from his victim. In the early stages of his planning, he'd considered poison; he thought about staging a kidnapping. In the end, none of these were as foolproof as doing the deed himself.

Getting rid of the Guardians had been, by far, the most difficult task. He had, in fact, planned for this; they were sworn to protect the boy, after all. It had taken months of pontification, careful studying of the Prince's daily schedules, and crucial, timed 'coincidence' with one of Amenhotep's many meetings that kept him away from the palace for weeks at a time.

In the end, he'd simply whisked Rapses out of their sights before they knew any better; the ease of it had left him, frankly, uneasy. The entire trip out to the most barren part of the desert was spent looking over his shoulder, half expecting them to storm in.

The boy sensed his nerves. Rapses had always been wary of him, suspicious of his motives, and generally unpleasant towards Scarab. The only reason he'd come along so congenially this time was because he had yet to see his father for eighteen standard days, and the notion that they would be reunited seemed to have overridden his usual judgment. Still, he sat stonily in the chariot, staring moodily to the side, lost in his own thoughts. It was just as well, Scarab thought, pursing his mouth tightly. He'd never been much for kids; and while he didn't particularly hate Rapses, the boy-prince had been born naturally into the position Scarab had strove and scratched his way up the ladder for decades.

From there, it was easy to pick out the boy's flaws: he was entitled, spoiled, bratty. He had wide, piercing eyes, his father's chin, and an air about him like he could see right through Scarab, like he found his struggles for power weak and pathetic and amusing. It was this thought, the notion that the boy was laughing at him, that Scarab tried to keep in his own head. Anger, he knew, coupled with his lust for power, would keep him on the path to his ultimate goal.

The Prince's entire demeanor changed as he began charging up the mountain, sand flying under clumsy, eager feet, limbs flying every which way. It was a particularly cruel twist to his plan, really; Rapses would die thinking only of wanting to see his father again. Scarab shook his head sharply. He would not back out now, particularly not because of his own sympathizing with his victim. The boy was an obstacle to the throne, a final stepping stone into ensuring the power he truly craved! He had to die.

Scarab magicked himself to the mountain's peak, not bothering to conceal a twisted grin at Rapsey's bark of surprise. "Where is my father?" he demanded.

"Nubia," the vizier answered. The boy's eyes clouded with sudden understanding, and Scarab knew it was Time. He felt the boy struggle in his grip - Rapses was stronger than he'd anticipated. Scarab knew he had a small dagger concealed in his robes, but he also knew the boy would wiggle out of his grasp and his months of planning would all be ruined in the time it took him to grab it. His hands slid up to Rapses' thin throat, long fingers wrapping around the nubile flesh.

"Wha -" the boy tried to speak. His own hands pried at Scarab's, but the heft of his own weight being held in the air only by his neck had weakened him quickly. He struggled uselessly, and Scarab bore down more tightly, trying not to concentrate on the boy's watering eyes, or the desperate, gagging sounds he made; the feel of his small hands grasping at his own, pleadingly. Scarab had never fancied himself a murderer before, least of all not in such a literal sense. It was not a task he ever wanted to repeat.

Rapses' body was mostly limp now; Scarab lowered it to the ground and, keeping one hand still clenched against the boy's windpipe, he covered Rapses' nose and mouth with the other palm. He gritted his teeth and began counting, trying to keep his mind on anything except what he was doing, waiting until he could no longer feel the boy's hot, desperate, final breaths against his fingers. Rapses' face was a purpled hue now, his eyes staring vacantly, accusatorily at his murderer. Softly, almost affectionately, Scarab reached down and slid them closed.

It took him a moment to collect his bearings. He'd done it; he'd really, actually gone through with it. A heady satisfaction mingled with the abject horror of his recent actions, the fact that his fingers were sore from having squeezed so hard. In his plans, he'd always thought he would dump Rapses' body in the Nile; a river accident, everyone would lament, and he would stand resolutely by Amenhotep's side, looking properly chastised. He was just considering whether or not to use magic to lift and carry the body, when the first arrow landed, hitting the packed sand with an audible 'thunk'.

Ja-Kal.

Scarab sneered. So they had figured it out after all. He clenched his fists in frustration. Moving Rapses' body was an impossibility now, as he would be easily spotted. He watched, seething as the Guardians approached, all in their individualized battle armor. Then, realizing he had no choice now, he muttered the incantation that would draw his Shabties to him.

Magically, they appeared, much greater in number than the Guardians. Still, the four wasted little time engaging them in battle, heartily and spirited. He watched Nefer lithely demolish a Shabti sneaking up on Ja-Kal, and decided he despised their easy camaraderie, even in the face of mortal peril.

And it was. The first batch of clay soldiers that Scarab summoned was defeated quickly enough, but by the fifth or sixth round, the Guardians were showing visible signs of exhaustion. Still, Scarab called upon more, possessed by the need to see this through. He knew now that he couldn't finish this day without the satisfaction of killing them all; the job would not be complete without it. He no longer cared about trying to prove his innocence, now. This went beyond simply killing Rapses. This - this was revenge; revenge because it had to come to this in the first place. Revenge because he had never liked the Guardians' pompous attitudes, so like that of the boy-pharaoh they were sworn to protect. Revenge for revenge's sake.

Rath was the first to fall. The others quickly realized what had happened, and in their aghast, Scarab summoned yet more Shabties. Nefer was slain next. More Shabties. It took nearly twelve to take Armon down - even one-armed, he was still a vicious opponent. As hundreds of Shabti warriors swarmed around the lone Ja-Kal, Scarab allowed himself, finally, to smile. He glanced down at the unmoving boy-prince at his feet. Then he summoned yet more Shabties.

When Ja-Kal finally fell, he just felt ... relief. Not an overwhelming joy, nor mind-numbing fear - that came later. Scarab marched gingerly down the mountain, and stood in the midst of the carnage, surveying his handy work. The full weight of what he had done was beginning to trickle, at last, into his mind. He had killed them. More than that, he had killed Amenhotep's son with his bare hands. He rubbed his palms on his tunics suddenly, as if trying to wipe away any stray blood. It felt as if there should have been some.

'I did it. I DID it.' The words were a mantra, swirling around in Scarab's head. He sat down in the middle of the makeshift battlefield, staring not at the wreckage, the bodies of four slain warriors and the corpse of a small boy who never would get to see his father return home again, but at his hands. He was still in that position when the palace guards found him, just before sunset, and took him back to the world he had once only almost ruled.


End file.
